A Tisket A Tasket
by PurpleCarpetsAgainstViolence
Summary: Season 6. After a run-in with a witch the boys end up de-aged. Now Bobby is left to take care of two ten-year olds. One of whom doesn't have a soul, one is pissed at the world in general. And it's not like Crowley cares about their little inconveniene.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, so I know that I should be working on the final chapter for Roaming The Land While You Sleep, but you see, I went on this trip with my friends over the weekend and I kinda packed the wrong laptop. The one that didin't have a half-finished Roaming finale on it so I started writing this. The Roaming chapter should be up sometime next week, don't worry and then I'll start working on chapter two for this story. Multitasking ftw.  
Stll no shirtless!Cas smiting grandpa Samuel on the show, ergo I still don't own Supernatural.  
Rated for language and because I just know that somehow I'll manage to turn this into some sort of Dean torture fic.

00000

"Mr Singer?"

The guy on the other end of the phone manages to sound five different kinds of pissed off and worried at the same time. And Bobby doesn't recognize the voice, so how did the guy get his hands on Bobby's number? It's already freaking Bobby out. That and the whole 'Mr Singer' business. He goes at the eggs he just dropped into a pan with a fork and gives an affirmative grunt into the phone.

"Mr Singer, this is the general manager of Waltmart Supercenter in Mitchell. Your nephews have been caught shoplifting. We need you to come get them."

Nephews? What the..?

"Hey, Uncle Bobby."

And then there's another, higher voice. The tone is all sheepish and kinda familiar, but that's just not possible, because Bobby hasn't talked to a kid in years, much less been called Uncle anything and he definitely hasn't talked to the one _kid_ the voice reminds him of.

"Listen, this son of a bitch won't let us leave."

"_Dean?"_

Because what other kid would get caught shoplifting, manage to make the manager as pissed as he just sounded and still call him a son of a bitch to his face? Only, Dean is thirty-fucking-two years old and doesn't sound like that and is perfectly able to con himself out of a little run-in with a Walmart manager.

"Yeah…"

"Dean, what'cha do to your vocal chords, boy?" Bobby asks and realizes that with the manager in the same room Dean is probably not gonna be able to discuss what exactly happened to him.

"I…we uhm…we fucked up…like…really fucked up. You need to come get us."

Yeah, Bobby figured as much.

He finishes scrambling his eggs, puts them on a plate, shoves it in the fridge and gets into a random truck to pick up his…nephews.

The drive takes him well over an hour. It's past noon when he finally gets there and the lady employee who leads him into a backroom/manager's office looks about ready to wring his neck with her bare hands, judging from the murmured 'thank God, they're getting out of here''s and 'who raises pests like that''s.

The door to the backroom opens and it's eerily reminiscent of a principal's office, what with the giant desk by the window, facing the door and the two children sitting in front of it. The boys turn around and Bobby's breath catches in his throat. It's the Winchester boys, all right. All of ten years old from the looks of it with two pairs of giant green eyes and wavy brown and dark blond hair falling into their faces.

"Hey, _Uncle Bobby_" Dean chimes, as if to signal him that right now, he's their uncle and he needs to play along.

"Hey…Dean." The old hunter figures that any hitch in his voice (because from the looks of it, Dean and his brother have been _de-aged_ and sorry, but that just throws him a tiny bit off centre) can easily be attributed to any number of other factors. Like the fact that his beloved nephews have been caught shoplifting - and isn't that just a horrible crime? - or the fact that both of them are dressed in boxers that are reaching almost past their knees and giant T-shirts that might as well be dresses.

The manager is filling him in on what happened and Bobby has trouble concentrating on him, but he forces himself to get the gist of it. Apparently Sam and Dean simply strolled into the store this morning, scooped up a couple of jeans and shirts from the kiddie section and walked right into the arms of the waiting superintendent. Fucking idjits.

Bobby assures the man that this was an isolated incident. No way have the boys ever done something like this before. Do they need to steal, because the alternative is running around in rags? No, no, their daddy is taking real good care of them. (insert: poorly stifled groan from Dean) Oh, they said their daddy was dead? Well, yeah. Died recently, actually. That probably explains the walking around in his old clothes and maybe even the shoplifting. Uncle Bobby just thinks of himself as their daddy, already. And he's taking real good care of them.

Bobby knows he's babbling and Dean is getting up and spits "just get us fucking out of here." and starts walking towards the door, Sam close to his heels.

"You may wanna take care of that one's mouth, mister." The store manager suggests, but Bobby is already following the boys out the door, only catching part of the man's parting comment about permissive parenting in general.

"We're out of money." Dean announces as soon as they're back in the main selling area. "You need to buy us something to wear"

Bobby kind of wants to tell him to mind his fucking tone, but this whole situation is freaking him out too much to care and anyway, he's been putting up with so much shit from Dean lately that this is hardly worth mentioning.

Bobby blindly grabs two pairs of jeans, two shirts, two packs of underwear, pays and stalks out into the parking lot.

There is a brief scuffle when Dean tries to get into the front seat and Sam points out that he is too small to be riding shotgun and Sam is taller than him. Which gets the standard response of "doesn't matter, I'm older."

"Technically, we're the same age now. We're both ten and I'm taller, so I get to sit up front."

Bobby practically drags them both into the back seat and turns around, facing them from behind the wheel.

Alright, Bobby decides, time to find out what mess these two morons have gotten themselves into this time.

Dean looks at Sam. _Fess up. This is so your fault._

Sam looks at Dean. Face blank. There's none of the _he'll be mad at me. You tell him._ that Bobby expected. Sam turns to Bobby.

"We were working this job. This woman uptown who was turning people into ten-year olds and then performed blood rituals with them."

Bobby huffs. People are screwed up.

"We killed her." Sam continues. And doesn't that just sound sick, coming from a ten-year old with no emotion in his voice, whatsoever. "She was using this mirror. If you look at it you get de-aged and…"

"Sam looked at it." Dean throws in, kicking his brother's leg with his bare foot. "And then he dropped the thing and it landed in front of me and I looked at it and now we're stuck like this. Thanks a lot, Samantha."

Bobby waits for the angry retort that doesn't come, so he starts the car and squints at their reflections in the rearview mirror.

"So, you got yourselves a little rejuvenation treatment." Two identical shrugs. "But…it's still you in there, right?"

"Yeah, it's still us in here" Dean spits as if the question was offensive beyond belief. "This isn't the Disney version of a brain eating virus horror flick. I'm perfectly clear on who I am, thank you very much."

Alright, this is just _it_.

"You wanna watch your tone with me, boy!"

Bobby watches with some amusement as kid immediately sobers, casting his eyes to his knobby knees.

"Sorry" he mumbles. "'s just…it's still us, okay? We still remember our training 'n how to do salt lines 'n the Alpha hunting 'n all. You can just drop us off at the motel. You don't have to take care of us or anything."

Huh? Right, amusement gone now.

"You think I'm gonna leave a couple of ten-year olds at a run-down motel and let you figure this out yourself?"

"We're not really ten." Sam informs him and Dean mumbles "It's not that run-down."

"Yeah, well you're still comin' back to my place and we'll come up with somethin' to grow you back up. _Just drop us off at the motel_, seriously, do I look like…?" and he almost says 'your father' but just about manages to end his tirade in a muffled cough.

At least they seem to accept that Bobby is in charge of where they're going (or Dean has accepted it and Sam has taken to doing whatever Dean thinks is right, anyway) but then they're just about to make a right turn onto the freeway when Dean's tiny (tiny!) hands are clutching the back of Bobby's seat all of a sudden, pulling the boy forward so he can make clear just how absolutely important his concerns are.

"You need to turn the car around. We need to get the Impala!"

Oh yeah. Matters of grave importance. Well, Dean certainly thinks so, judging from the panicked look in his eyes.

"We're gonna get your car when one of you is actually able to drive it out of the motel parking lot, shall we?"

"I am perfectly able to drive my own freaking car!" Complete with stray strands of dark blond hair falling into his pouty face. "I was driving the car when I was _actually_ ten!"

"Yeah" Sam laughs a freaky Chinese knock-off of his real laugh. "For all of six seconds and then you killed the ignition and Dad busted your ass for even trying."

"Bite me, Sam. I can drive _now_."

"Well, I ain't lettin' you go behind a wheel until you're your proper size again" Bobby interrupts them. He has seen more than his fair share of Winchester pissing matches. Grown ups or kids or some crazy hybrid, these need to be stopped before they ever get started.

"Bobby, I can – "

"What're you gonna tell the cop that pulls you over for driving a car? On the highway. When you look all of ten and the only papers you got are fake police badges and ID cards that say you're in your thirties, huh?"

That about shuts him up.

"We'll get your car once you're back to normal."

"'kay."

"Now sit back in your seat and buckle up." Because, what _are_ they going to tell the cop that pulls him over for endangering two minors by not having them wear seatbelts? Two minors that're still wearing the clothes they put on this morning when they were twice as tall and that aren't officially in his care and that have records of dying three years ago when they were fugitives in FBI custody.

No, Bobby is definitely not taking any risks. He needs to get the boys back to the salvage yard and figure out how to undo this mirror spell.

But it's a long drive and you'd think that two kids that were basically raised on the road would be better at sitting on their asses and not bugging him, but alas…

Dean is hungry and that tends to make him pissy and Sam wants to take a shower and Dean is worried that someone at the motel will hurt the Impala and oh, all their stuff is still in the motel room and Bobby needs to turn around now because Dean needs his tapes and then they start putting on their new clothes and yes, of course they can get out of their seatbelts for that and then they scramble all over each other and Sam's foot hurts where Dean kicked him and Bobby starts thinking that yeah, maybe they remember everything that happened in the last twenty-plus years but that sure as hell doesn't change the fact that he's got two honest to God ten-year olds in his car.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, I'm sorry for the long wait. I needed some time to experiment with this story to figure out where to take it (which I really should have done before posting the first chapter...silly me). Oh, and didn't I tell you that I'd just _have_ to turn this into some kind of Dean torture fic? Yeah, I just can't seem to help myself. It's not too bad, though...yet *cackles like crazy while lightning goes off in the background* Anyway, enough of my crazy ramblings. I'm high on cough meds. Let's get this story going.

00000

At first, Bobby isn't sure, but an hour and a half of driving with the two Winchester boys (boys, for crying out loud!) in the backseat makes him fairly certain. These two are actually ten years old. Ten-year olds with twenty-plus years worth of memories (plus who knows how many decades they both remember from hell) but ten-year olds none the less.

It's hard to tell at first, because Dean spends a lot of his time acting like a little kid anyway, so the difference is not all that noticeable and Sam has been…off ever since he returned from the cage and weird is weird whether it's coming from a kid or a grown-ass man, but it's blatantly obvious when you know what to look for. Which Bobby does.

It's in their little flinches and pouty faces when he tells them to leave him alone for a second. The constant need to be entertained. The way Dean keeps poking his brother when he thinks Bobby isn't looking. The way Sam is kicking the seat in front of him without ever noticing. All traits he remembers from when the boys were little'uns and that have been abandoned ages ago.

And then they reach the salvage yard and Bobby's last doubts get blown to pieces.

He figures the boys need a little cheering up. They're looking all sad and dejected at having turned themselves into munchkins. Well, Dean is looking all sad and dejected and Sam is faking an expression that somewhat mirrors his brother's. Anyway, Bobby decides that he has just the treat for them waiting in the shed.

"C'mon, you two, I gotta show you something." He announces and pulls open the wooden door. Out tumbles a giant bundle of wagging tail and clumsy paws and pink, enthusiastic tongue. "Boys, meet your new buddy Gates."

After five years of grieving Rumsfeld, Bobby decided that it was about time the yard got populated with a new doggy and the little Mastiff that the local shelter was going to put down seemed about perfect. He's probably always gonna be a big softie on the inside, coming up to him in the middle of the night for a cuddle, but Bobby doesn't mind that, because at the tender age of sixteen weeks, Gates also already enjoys barking his lungs out and hunting off stray animals and punk kids from the town (idiot punk kids that don't realize that they're running from a baby, but that's not the point.)

Gates jumps at the new arrivers with an enthusiastic whine, because they came here with his master so naturally, they must be his friends too. It's reminiscent of the two million other times the boys showed up and got greeted by one of the guard dogs. Bobby expects them to be down on their knees, grinning and patting the whelp's fair, soft belly.

Just that they…sort of…don't.

Sam stares his blank stare down at the puppy and Dean lets out a panicked, badly stifled scream and actually scrambles behind Bobby's legs and grabs desperate hold of his jacket.

"Get him away from me" he all but yelps, then continues mumbling into the confines of Bobby's back. "Make him leave, Bobby. Please."

"Sweet _Jesus_…"

Taken aback, Bobby tries to shove his leg in front of little Gates to keep him from examining this new, exiting, trembling playmate that's making all those funny shrieking noises. Dean pulls at the back of Bobby's jacket and Bobby feels almost compelled to say 'Christo', this shit is so out of character. But hey, they can figure out what exactly happened here later. Right now Bobby has a kid that's terrified of a puppy to take care of. He starts pushing Dean towards the main house and shouts for Sam to get Gates back into his barn.

Bobby shoves Dean onto the couch in his 'library' and immediately the boy pulls his knees up to his chest, hugs them tight, head buried in his arms and Bobby sits down next to him, his hand hovering awkwardly just above the kid's neck. His old heart screams for him to comfort the little boy but it's not like Dean is real big on all this touchy-feely crap. Especially when he's basically having a breakdown.

Bobby decides to leave him to it and Dean must have felt his weight shift on the sofa cushions because all of a sudden, Bobby has his arms full with scared, sobbing little boy. Alright then, so ten-year old Dean isn't all that opposed to the touchy-feely crap. At least not when he's having a breakdown.

He's not actually full out sobbing, Bobby notices. More like hyperventilating and working real hard on not crying. It doesn't take him as long as Bobby thought it would to pull himself together again and now he's looking all embarrassed and like he wants to dig himself a hole and die in it. He's not getting out of Bobby's loose embrace, though.

"So..?" Bobby prompts gently.

"So…" Dean responds, breath still kinda hitching in awkward places. "…so when'd you get a new dog?"

"'bout a month ago" Bobby informs him. "When'd you stop liking my new dogs?"

'Cause now he's thinking of the first time he introduced the boys to Aspin and Perry and how you couldn't get them out of the yard for days unless the giant puppies were allowed to come sleep in their bed and he's pretty sure he's still got an old Polaroid in some drawer of the boys, aged five and nine or something, draped all over Carlucci, the giant furry beast. Nope. This whole puppy phobia thing is definitely new.

Dean shrugs a one shouldered shrug and talks to Bobby's knees.

"Just…you know…I uhm..ha-haven't really been into the whole Lassie thing since…since I came back…"

Oh. Right. Back from hell. Bobby figures that makes sense.

"I know 'ts stupid. I'm usually better at not freaking. I know Gates isn't a hellhound or anythin'."

Bobby wants to tell him that it's not really that stupid to be scared of dogs when a couple of them killed you and dragged you to hell to be tortured for some thirty years, but Dean is already pushing himself off the couch, squaring his shoulders and walking for the front door. Probably going to storm into Bobby's shed and stare at Gates for a couple of hours before he can convince himself that his moment of sissy-little-girly-ness has been compensated for.

He doesn't. Not for a _couple of hours_, anyway, but Bobby figures that has more to do with the kid's skittish attention span than anything else.

After about fifteen minutes the boys appear in his kitchen and Sam informs him that they're hungry. Winchester children being hungry? Shocker! Bobby kinda wishes he bought Lucky Charms or M&M's last time he got groceries and makes a mental note to do just that if they don't manage to reverse the curse immediately. For now they have to content themselves with whatever the old hunter has stashed in his half empty fridge.

Dean grabs the cold scrambled eggs that Bobby put there this morning. He wants to tell the kid that the uneaten breakfast is probably only fit to be mixed among Gates' dinner, because really, he wasn't exactly focusing when he made it and the eggs are sort of burned and at this point resemble used, sticky yellow chewing gum as much as anything else. He wants to tell Dean that, but the boy is already stuffing his face with it, because yeah, saturated fats were involved in the making of his meal so he's happy. Plus, ten-year old Dean has been told to eat whatever's been put in front of him and be grateful for it so often that he'll eat just about anything.

Ten-year old Sam was told the same thing but any kind of Sam is a picky eater and it's not like _this_ Sam is in any way, shape or form trying to impress Bobby or live up to his imagined expectations, so Sam builds himself a semi-healthy sandwich out of everything that was left in the fridge - and yeah, take that literally. _Everything_. Not like other people might want to eat anything in the near futur.

"So what do we do next?"

Dean is putting his plate away into the sink, actually bouncing on his bare toes, looking up at Bobby with those giant enthusiastic green orbs, waiting to be told what big adventure to go on next.

Well, it's pretty obvious what they need to do next. They need to figure out what kind of voodoo the witch back in Mitchell worked on the boys and how to reverse it. Bobby leads the way back into the 'library' and points at a hefty, leather bound tome that has been serving as a door stopper for the last year if not more.

The enthusiasm drains from Dean's boyish features and he raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"What's that?"

"A book" Sam informs him before Bobby has a chance to provide them with a title or anything. "Those things they gave you at school? You used to draw giant penises on mine? Turns out, if you pick them up and _read _them, sometimes you learn something."

Okay, so according to Bobby's research, without his soul, Sam is basically an emotionless robot that looks like the boy he knew but doesn't have access to any of the emotions and sentiments that make Sam Sam. Except for his obsession with healthy eating and his sarcasm, apparently.

What is definitely missing however is the glee that used to spring up in his eyes whenever Bobby would point him in the direction of any old story book to do some kiddie sized research. This little boy is all blank faced, the dimples seeming completely out of place and useless, when he flops down on the sofa and opens the book Bobby hands him.

Bobby assembles a small heap of potentially helpful volumes and manuscripts and they start working in silence.

After about half an hour Dean's head drops onto the book in front of him and with a long suffering sigh he announces that "this shit is never gonna amount to anything. We're gonna stay midgets forever."

"Nonsense." Bobby scoffs and Sam doesn't look up from his book to huff that annoyed huff of his.

"It's not even been an hour yet, Dean. Seriously…"

"Well, it's boring!"

"Just deal with it."

It's such a crazy role reversal that Bobby thinks he might just need to look into body switching spells on top of the de-aging thing. True, especially as a kid, Dean always had the attention span of a fruit fly, but Bobby remembers the times John dropped the boys off at his place to be taught about this fugly or that one and while yeah, Dean didn't exactly enjoy all of their training, he used to be the one that told little Sammy to stay focused, to keep going, to make a game out of it. Now, though, little Sammy is just a miniature Sam shell with a giant brain and no Sammy-ness to keep focused or entertained and Dean is free to be as bored by their pursuits as he wants to be.

Two minutes later his boredom is basically spilling over. Dean's hands are tapping a crazy rhythm on his knees, his nose, the books, the tabletop, Sam's shoulder ("Bobby, make him stop!"), his knees again, he is rolling his head towards the ceiling, huffing and groaning and alright kid, we fucking get it.

"Dean, get out into the yard and run around or something." Bobby finally snaps. Jesus, what did he do back in the day when the boys got like this? "If ya can't focus, we don't need you in here."

And fuck, Bobby sees the adult walls slam into place behind those bright eyes.

"Aw, shit, Dean, c'mon, you know I didn't…"

But Dean is mumbling something about how it's okay and he needs some fresh air anyway and then he's out the door.

"I think you upset him." Sam comments, a puzzled frown on his face.

Yeah, Bobby upset the boy alright. It takes maybe five minutes before they can hear the old rifle he keeps on the lawn being fired at some old, dead car wreck somewhere in the yard.


	3. Chapter 3

Okay, so for timeline's sake, let's just say this is set sometime after Family Matters (obviously) and before Caged Heart (again, obviously), because I need Crowley for this fic and yeah, after last night...

00000

The shooting continues for longer than Bobby thought he had ammo lying around for. It's a steady assault of loud cracks, sometimes shattering of glass when the bullets hit another car window and Gates barking up a ruckus that Rumsfeld would have been proud of.

"He shooting at the cars because you upset him?" Sam asks while his eyes keep flying over the book he's scanning for information on mirror curses.

Bobby grunts a vague 'yeah'. It's what Dean does when he gets his feelings hurt. He goes out and beats up his car or his little brother or slaughters a couple of vamps. God forbid the boy come out and talk to anyone about anything.

"He should just calm down." Sam's eyes have stopped moving and his annoyed scowl might be the first real expression Bobby has seen on his face all day. "I can't focus with all this noise and it's not like you said anything wrong. He _wasn't_ helping."

Yeah, Bobby figures that's sort of, kind of true. But Bobby also knows that there are one or two things you just don't say to Dean unless you're aiming for a complete fuckup of either the boy's psyche or your own face or possibly both. If that's what you _are_ trying to do, though_, Your mom _jokes are a good way to go. As is any variant of I'm _gonna hurt your brother_. And of course _We don't need you._ Bobby has always argued that that one might actually the worst. The one that cuts the deepest, even though it is the one that is usually answered with a self deprecating grin and shrugged off with a smart-ass comment. But Bobby has to remind himself that thirty-two years of baggage crammed into the psyche of a ten-year old will lead to different responses.

But Dean's still Dean and once he's emptied every round that would fit his rifle he comes back, glaring daggers at Sam and Bobby to not comment and flops down on the floor with his book again.

He manages to hold still for almost an entire hour before he starts shifting around and shooting stray glances at Bobby and dropping his eyes the moment the old mechanic tries to meet his gaze.

"What is it?" he finally asks when Dean has been fumbling with a loose fiber from the carpet for a good minute and a half.

"Nothin', sir." Oh, crap-tastic. He's turned the boy into silent-invisible-soldier-Dean. "I don't wanna bother you."

"Just spit it out, kid." And he makes it just enough of an order that he knows it'll do the job.

That's the moment Dean's stomach decides to speak up in a loud grumbling noise and the kid kinda blushes and mumbles "'m hungry."

Bobby raises an incredulous eyebrow. They ate lunch two hours ago. There is just no way. He tries to remember that old running gag they had about Dean being infested with a tapeworm that had eaten a black hole, but before he can get out one word Sam is basically falling over himself with "do you have any Lucky Charms?"

Even Sam himself looks shocked at his uncharacteristic enthusiasm and Bobby makes a mental note to add 'childhood cereal preferences' to the list of things not attached to a person's soul.

But anyway, kids are hungry and Bobby's fridge is basically empty.

"You wanna go into the town and have some actual food?"

He gets two excited nods. Like back in the day when eating at a diner was still a treat for the boys and not part of their day to day routine. Then their eyes drop back to the books on the coffee table. The books that have been goddamn pointless so far.

"Nah, c'mon. We got all day to figure this out. Let's go eat."

00000

In hindsight he should have known it was a bad idea. That's the beauty about hindsight, he figures. But really, Bobby isn't a grade school teacher or a soccer mom or whatever and getting his panties in a bunch in fear of a sugar overdose just isn't something that usually enters his world. And it's not like the boys are 100% kids and he can just imagine the looks and _'the fuck?'_s he'd receive if he ordered their food for them. So he doesn't comment on the two chocolate shakes or the cheeseburger with fries and extra onions and extra, extra, extra ketchup or the _other two_ chocolate shakes and the pancakes with chocolate sauce, because Sam also orders a small tomato salad so that should balance out the rest, right?

The waitress even shot Bobby a questioning look as if to confirm the order and he just gave her a disinterested shrug, idiot that he is.

Oh, and then he popped across the street for just one second to get Sam his damn Lucky Charms from the grocery store and now he's back and…wow.

Dean has chocolate down the front of his shirt, the plates and glasses have been put (thrown) on the floor, a ketchup target has been painted onto the cheep plastic table, Sam is standing several feet away, tossing soggy French fries in the general direction of the target, Dean is hollering, there might be onions in his hair, the staff have taken refuge behind the counter, clutching each other with fear, a baby is crying.

Well, maybe Bobby's exaggerating. But not much.

He lets out a yell for them to "freeze and drop that French fry" and at least they still react to that tone in his voice. A waitress hurries over with a murderous scowl on her face (but seriously, lady, they're just two little kids. You could'a stopped'em if you'd tried) and asks Bobby to take the boys and leave because there are other people here who are trying to eat and blah blah blah.

He pays for their food and gives a generous tip, because just maybe he will want to eat at this place again and he'd really prefer his food to be free of any and all bodily fluids. He tells the boys to apologize and they do, even though Dean looks anything but sorry – looks like he's having the time of his life, actually – and Sam's pathetic imitation of his puppy dog eyes might be even worse than his new trademark blank look.

He'll never know how he gets both of them back into the backseat of the truck without knocking their heads together trying to get them to quiet down. Or kill them. Whatever.

"I should tan your scrawny little asses, you know that?" he growls into the rearview mirror and Dean smirks and Sam actually giggles like it's the most ridiculous threat ever. Which it is.

"Really, boys, what were you thinking? I thought you said that was still you in there."

"It is." Dean shrugs, poking at a scratch in the dusty window. "We were just playin' around, you know?"

Bobby decides not to comment on how much is wrong with that defense. He continues muttering vague threats of murder in the general direction of the backseat and tries to remember if the boys ever were such brats when they were little'uns the first time 'round. He really doesn't think so. He remembers stubborn and noisy and smart-ass but in the end they were well behaved enough. Not the quick, jumpy obedient marionettes they were around their daddy (yup, even Sammy. In the beginning at least) but easy enough to handle. Of course back then, Sammy still had a soul and Dean had a little brother to be a good role model for. In this new context they're like half trained hunting dogs that have been set free to terrorize humanity. Or just their Uncle Bobby. Whatever floats their boat.

They're still riding on their sugar highs when they get back to the salvage yard and Bobby tells them to stay outside and play soccer or something while he goes back to doing research on what to do about this goddamn curse. Because this? This is in no way, shape or form an acceptable situation.

He has worked his way through four decidedly unhelpful books on age spells and blood rituals and whatnot by the time the boys come back inside, their hair and jeans dusty and Dean's shirt so far from its original white, Bobby has to wonder what possessed him to only buy one set of clothes for each boy. He hasn't bought them any sneakers, either. Kids shouldn't be running around barefoot in the yard, this time of year. There's no snow yet, but still.

At least is looks like they've exhausted themselves out there and Dean doesn't even pull a face when Bobby pushes a collection of essays on the powers of children's blood in his hands.

They fall into silence, each reading through their own set of books.

Not that any of them find anything even remotely useful. There's mirror spells that make you see crazy things, there's mirror spells that stop you from aging, there's de-aging spells that have nothing to do with mirrors.

At some point after they've had supper, Bobby looks up to massage his tired eyes and his gaze settles on Dean out cold, collapsed on top of his book. Drool is slowly but surely seeping into the ancient pages and Bobby thinks he should wake the boy because if he goes through with what he wants to do and Dean wakes up on his own…Bobby doesn't even want to imagine that shit storm. But he's an old, eccentric, esoteric hillbilly and he's allowed to be whacky and sentimental from time to time so he scoops the tiny weight that is Dean up in his arms and lays him down on the plush, red sofa and covers him with blankets.

Bobby and Sam keep leafing through book after book and Bobby feels weirded out beyond belief that this ten-year old boy doesn't show a speck of exhaustion when Bobby calls it a day at 3 in the morning.

"Good night" Sam shrugs. "I'll try and come up with something till morning."

"Uh-huh."

Bobby gets up and kinda wants to ruffle the kid's shaggy hair except that he really doesn't, because this kid is just plain _wrong_ and who knows if by touching him Bobby will get part of his own soul sucked out. Maybe, just maybe Bobby can understand Dean's constant bitching about how freakishly scary his brother has become.

"Try not to be staring at your brother when he wakes up." Bobby mutters and makes his way upstairs into his bedroom.

His head has barely hit the mattress (okay, maybe it has, because when he checks his watch it's two hours later, but it feels like he hasn't slept a second) when the frantic screaming and yelling from downstairs has him sitting upright and scrambling down the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

Hey, uhm...what happened to all you wonderful reviewing people? Do you guys not like what's happening anymore?

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It's a small miracle that Bobby doesn't trip over his own feet and break his neck falling down the stairs in his mad dash for the 'library'. He makes it there in record time, punching the light switch, expecting several black-eyed sons of bitches trying to kill the two fun-sized Winchester boys for whatever goddamn reason.

No demons have gotten past the devil's traps, though. It's just the boys in a heap on the floor next to the couch. Dean is shaking like a leaf, still wrapped up in his woolen blanket and Bobby could swear his eyes look puffy and red. Sam is sitting next to him, holding him down with both his hands, little fingernails digging deep into his brother's shoulders.

"What the hell is going on here, boys?"

Bobby's voice is still raspy from sleep (or lack thereof). Dean makes a visible effort to pull himself together while Sam shrugs and pushes his brother back down.

"Dean had a nightmare."

"Nightmare?"

"'m fine, B-bobby. D-don't worry 'bout it."

Bobby has learned to ignore Dean's assurances of being fine a long time ago, so he turns to Sam instead. Looks like he's the only one right now who isn't still half asleep, what with the whole being-awake-for-over-a-year-thing.

"What're you holdin' him down for?"

Sam turns his puzzled, empty, green eyes from Bobby to his hands on Dean's shoulders and back to Bobby.

"I'm being supportive."

Right. Bobby rolls his eyes and frees Dean from his brother's supportive death grip.

"What kinda nightmare?" he asks while Dean peels himself out of the older hunter's arms and climbs onto the couch to hug his knees.

"About hell," Sam provides when it becomes obvious that Dean isn't planning on talking much. "He keeps dreaming about torturing me…or my soul or whatever."

"Aw, hell, Dean," Bobby runs his hands through his thinning copper hair. "I thought we were over that."

Dean makes a face that says _Yeah, well clearly we aren't_.

Bobby wants to shout at him that maybe PTSD isn't something you rub a little dirt on and get over after all, but he's feeling too sorry for the little boy who's reliving his days as apprentice to the great torture master of hell with his baby brother in a starring role, so he ceeps his mouth shut. Besides the moment passes when Dean squares his shoulders and rubs a tired hand over his eyes to get rid of the last traces of his crying.

"Hey, Sammy?"

Wow, when was the last time he heard _that_ name?

"Hm?"

"I need a fucking drink."

Alright, so Bobby is tired. And he isn't used to having the munchkins around anymore. And he's still sorta shell shocked from all the screaming and yelling and almost falling down the stairs oh, and did he mention that he's _tired?_ So it takes him several moments to register that a little boy is carrying a full bottle of tequila towards his ten-year old brother and that maybe that's not the most brilliant idea in the world. And then it takes him another few moments to realize that Dean is uncapping the bottle and moving it towards his trembling lips and -

"Bobby! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Bobby has just about managed to slap the booze out of the kid's hands.

"What's wrong with me?" Bobby's growling now. "What's wrong with _you?_ You can't drink that. You're a child for chrissakes!"

"I'm thirty-two!"

"Well, your body ain't and I'm not about to let you poison yourself."

"A little tequila isn't gonna poison me. Geez, Dad let me drink all the time when I was ten."

"Bullshit" Bobby scoffs. Because he may have had his problems with the man but there is just no way he was that bad a father.

Dean makes another face at being called on his bluff and mumbles something along the lines of "well, he wouldn't have cared either way."

Bobby runs his hand through his hair again and turns away. It's way too early to be dealing with Dean's my-daddy-didn't-love-me-issues. "Yeah, well, I care and if you let me catch you anywhere near my stash again you'll be spending a couple hours staring at a corner in the panic room," he grumbles and adds an irritated "that goes for you too" in Sam's direction because the boy looks really confused as to why giving alcohol to a kid might be a bad idea.

Heaving his tired bones off the couch, Bobby tells Dean to go back to bed and Dean looks at him like he's lost his mind.

"What?" Bobby snaps. "What now?"

"He doesn't really sleep after a nightmare." Sam helps out again when Dean just shrinks back into his corner of the sofa and Bobby immediately feels bad. "Not unless he gets really drunk first."

Bobby doesn't know what to do with these boys and their fucked up coping mechanisms, so he tells them that _he_ certainly plans on going back to bed and Dean can stay up and help his brother do research if he wants to.

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"Bobby?"

_No! Nonononononono! Not again!_

"Sam, get back here!"

"Bobby, wake up!"

"Sam!"

"What?"

"Get back here, Bobby's sleeping?"

_Exactly, Sam. Listen to your brother. Lemme sleep._

"So?"

"So let'im sleep."

"Why?"

"'cause he's not a freakin' robot like you. We've bothered him enough for one night."

"I'm not bothering him, I'm trying to tell him something."

"We can tell him later. Now c'mon. People with souls need to sleep."

_Please have this fight downstairs. Please!_

"I thought souls were supposed to make you care about stuff. Why would he rather sleep than know about the curse?"

_Wait, what?_

"Great job, Samantha, you woke him."

Bobby forces his eyes to open to take in the grey morning light. There's no way it's even one minute past 5:30. Great. That brings his total amount of shuteye to a measly two and a half hours. Not like he's and old man who needs his rest to function or anything.

He turns onto his other side and his nose almost collides with Sam's.

"We figured out what spell the witch put on us." He doesn't sound proud or satisfied or anything at all.

Bobby looks past the shaggy brown hair to where Dean is hovering by the doorway, like it's an invisible barrier that he doesn't dare cross.

"Maybe, Sam." He's mumbling and studying his bare feet again. "We _maybe_ figured it out. We aren't really sure. Sorry, you can look at it later, Bobby. Go back to sleep, okay?"

Alright, c'mon, Singer. Voice. Words. Use them.

"Wha…what kinda…what?"

Good job.

"We found something about a de-aging curse that's worked with mirrors and – "

"We're not really sure it's the right curse, though. Really, you can look at it later."

But Bobby is already peeling himself out of his nice warm and comfy blankets. An unattractive grunting sound escapes his lips when he manages to get his old bones off the bed and fuck, getting older is a bitch.

"I'll be right down, boys" he rasps past the tiredness in his throat while picking up his trucker hat from the nightstand. "Make me a cup of coffee, Dean, will ya?"

Dean does that thing where he straightens up and shouts "yes, sir" and hurries away down the hall. Dean damn well knows that it makes Bobby uncomfortable as hell but that doesn't seem to change a thing. Never has.

Five minutes later he joins to boys in the kitchen where Dean pushes a steaming cup of black coffee across the table and it looks so good right now that Bobby decides not to comment on the cup in the boy's own miniature hands. He'd rather have him drinking coffee than tequila, anyway.

Before he gets to taste the own first sip though, Sam has dropped a small leather bound book in front of him.

"This is the spell." He opens the book on one of the last pages.

"_Might be _the spell. It's Aramaic or something. We're not sure exactly what it says." And then the quiet unsure mumbling turns to utter disgust. "And it's in poet form."

Bobby reads over the tiny, faded script and a satisfied smile forces its way past the tired lines of his mouth.

"You boys got it about right. Mirror spell. You look at the mirror, it turns you into a ten-year old. Usually used for blood rituals." The sick part isn't even that such a spell is possible. It's that people have a use for this kind of fucked up crap. Some sick bastard sat down and figured out how to de-age a fellow human being so they could use their blood for some sort of voodoo. And then they felt the need to write it all down and spread the word, because apparently there are enough creeps in the world who'd like to try their hand on the same thing. Sometimes Bobby's glad he specializes in demons. Humans are just too screwed up. "Yup. That's your spell."

"Awesome. How do we undo it?"

"We don't."

"What?"

"We don't." Bobby points at the last two paragraphs. "The spell only lasts for a week. Six more days and you'll be back to normal."

"Six days? I don't wanna be in this fucked up body for six days."

"It's you own body you're talking about, dude, you realize that, right?"

"Oh, you can't tell me that you feel comfortable looking up at people again, mini-sasquatch."

"Boys!"

"Aw, c'mon Bobby, this sucks! I can't drive, I can't hold my gun straight, I can't even rob a frickin' Walmart without having somebody call my _uncle Bobby_!"

Bobby tries not to take offense to the way his name is uttered like a foul expletive. It doesn't matter, anyway, because there's no way of undoing the curse and Dean will just have to live with being dependant on another human being for a couple of days.

He pours the boys the Lucky Charms he bought for breakfast and hopes that kids' cereal won't lead to a repeat appearance of yesterday's sugar overdose. They make the stuff specially for kids so it should be safe on the sugar front, right?

He makes another cup of coffee for himself and starts musing on what to do with the boys for the rest of the week. What would they usually do? Well, do research, grab a couple of weapons and go out on a hunt. What did they use to do? He can't even think back to a time when the boys would just turn up at his door step without needing his help fighting evil. He can have Dean work on some of the cars, he figures. He always liked that. And Sam liked…well, that doesn't matter, because Sam doesn't like or dislike much of anything anymore. They can all play poker, maybe. Or something more age appropriate. Like…Bridge. Okay, so sue him, Bobby doesn't know any kiddy card games. Maybe he could take the boys to Disney Land, just to torture the employees with the only two ten-year olds on the planet who would spend their time there scowling at the staff and threatening the fluffy mascots with bodily harm, should they try to hug them.

Bobby snickers and sends them out to play in the yard until he can think of some real activity. He's in the middle of making a list of what survival supplies to buy to be prepared for the rest of the week (shoes, socks, some more shirts, M&M's, a lock for his liquor cabinet,…) and then all hell breaks loose.

Gates is barking his tiny lungs out and Dean is yelling and someone's laughing and then Bobby hears that dreaded, smooth British accent that makes the fine hairs on the back of his arms stand and his skin crawl and he's running for the door.

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Next up: The King of Hell (because he's awesome and my life is seriously incomplete without him)


	5. Chapter 5

So this is what happens, when I complain about not getting enough reviews? Hm, I should do that more often. Keep 'em coming. ^^

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He's been doing a lot of panicked hurrying into and out of rooms to get to yelling and screaming children these past two days Bobby muses as he bursts through his front door to the ear piercing sound of Gates' high-pitched howling. The Mastiff is banging against the barn door, agitated by the sounds coming from somewhere in between the dozens of car wrecks that are piled up all over the salvage yard.

Yelling for the boys, Bobby grabs his shotgun off the front porch and hurries through the maze of dead cars until he comes to a sudden stop.

Sam is standing next to a burned out VW bus, worrying at his lower lip, glaring daggers at the dark-haired figure in the expensive looking suit that's got his brother pinned to the rusty black metal of the bus. Dean is struggling against the demonic powers that hold him in place but it's doing no good.

"You let that boy go, you hairy-backed, fly-bitten dog of a whore." Bobby growls, cocking his weapon and taking aim.

"Ah, Uncle Bobby has joined our little party, has he?" Crowley turns with a lazy smirk on his face that only increases once he sees the rusty shotgun. "Oh please. You think this is going to intimidate me? Now that's just sad."

"Get your dirty demon paws off that boy." Bobby growls again.

"Or what? You're going to shoot that poor sod I'm possessing?"

"Nah" the lazy drawl comes with a sly grin that matches the demon's. "I'm not gonna kill anybody. Just fill up your sorry ass with a nice load of rock salt. Sound like fun?"

The smirk freezes and turns into a sneer. Crowley lets out a stream of curses and Dean tumbles to the ground next to his brother, cursing right along.

"Now thanks for the visit, but I must ask you to leave my property. It's startin' to smell like rotten eggs."

"One more minute, Uncle Bobby" Crowley smiles and with a snap of his fingers the shotgun jumps out of Bobby's hands and lands somewhere beneath the Volkswagen. "I just have to finish with Pat and Isabelle over here."

"I already told you" Dean snarls. "We're so not your bitches. We're not gonna chase after every job you throw at us and we sure as hell aren't gonna do it now."

"And I have told you." The demon rolls his eyes, like he's talking to a mentally challenged toddler. "You _are_ my bitches. It's not my fault the two of you decided to go Sesame Street. You are going to chase every single monster I tell you to chase and you are going to do it whenever I damn well tell you to. I'm your one chance at getting your little brother back. Sorry."

Dean looks like he's trying his damndest to bite back whatever bitter remark he has to offer to that and Bobby jumps in.

"Yeah, about that whole holding-Sam's-soul-hostage situation. They bring you one Alpha, this whole shebang is over?"

"What about it, Uncle Bobby?" Something about the way he keeps calling him that makes Bobby's toenails curl.

"Seeing as this is you we're dealing with, personally, I'd like to see that deal in writing."

"Oh." Crowley makes a show of brushing some imaginary dust off his suit. "Well, seeing as I am the one with all the leverage, I'm afraid you're just gonna have to take my word for it."

No leverage? Has that weedy punk-ass demon forgotten how they played him not two months ago when he tried to weasel his way out of Bobby's deal?

"I can always get someone to dig up your bones again and go through with the demon-killin' this time."

And the godforsaken mold warp actually has the audacity to laugh in the face of his threat.

"Right. Those bones are safe. You had your one chance with them and you blew it."

Fuck. They really, really, really should have thought of that. But apparently they were all too focused on honoring their side of the deal and saving Bobby's soul to take precautions for getting Sam's back.

"Now that we have taken care of all of Uncle Bobby's concerns, let's talk about your next adventure, boys." Crowley turns his back to him again and Bobby has to hurry to the boys' sides because he'll be damned if he lets himself be dismissed like that.

"I'm feeling like I'm repeating myself" Dean mutters, glaring up at the demon. "We're _ten years old_. We're not going on any hunts. Not for you. Not for anybody."

"We'll go six days from now." Sam decides. "Your alpha's still gonna be around then."

"Oh, I'm sorry, you're still laboring under the impression that you have a say in these matters."

Crowley smiles his twisted smile down at Dean. Because he somehow figures it's Dean not Bobby that he'll have to convince. Well, the measly demon scum's got another think coming. Dean returns the steely gaze, his tiny body trembling with all the hatred he can summon up.

"Do I need to start burning your brother again?"

Dean blanches but bares his teeth and keeps up his death glare with renewed anger.

And then Crowley's hand shoots forward, pinning Dean against the front door of the hippy bus again, without his demonic mind powers this time. He has the boy's dark blond curls in a tight fist, holding him several inches above the ground.

"Now you listen to me, Goldilocks." He snarls into his ear. "I have taken all the temper tantrums I'm going to take from you. Now you're going to be a good little soldier and you're going to catch me an alpha." Dean is still sneering and his legs are kicking weakly at the demon. Bobby gets ready to tackle the suit wearing miscreant right off his grounds once and for all, but he finds that he's been pinned to the spot and Crowley's grin is back in place. "If you don't, I can always off your pretty, little meat suit and toss you right into the cage, so you can practice your razor skills on little Sammy some more, what do you say?"

Bobby knows that that will do it. Knows it, even before the fight leaves Dean's body and he goes limp in Crowley's grip.

"Fine" he mumbles through clenched teeth.

"Excuse me?"

"I said _fine_." He spits at the demon. "We're gonna go on your stupid hunt for you."

Crowley smiles that twisted, smug grin of his, gives Dean's head one last rough shake and lets go of his hair to send him tumbling to the ground again.

Oh, Bobby's so had it with that British motherfucker.

"Nobody's going on any goddamn hunts, you hear me?"

Crowley rolls his eyes and Bobby half expects to find himself flying across the salvage yard. But somehow it's Sam who crashes into a nearby Buick by a flick of the demons wrist. Dean starts hurling abuse at the demon again and Bobby's yelling and then there's a loud crash from the barn and panicked barking and before they know what's happening, Sam is lying next to the car again because Crowley is preoccupied, dealing with the fur ball that has attached itself to his slacks.

"Gates, back off!" Bobby shouts, because he's pretty sure that the pup is about to get his neck snapped if he doesn't disappear under the nearest car yesterday, but he just keeps growling and tearing at the soft fabric and Crowley's actually laughing.

"Well, look at that. Uncle Bobby got himself a hellhound of his own." He smirks down at Dean like he knows all about yesterday's Gates/hellhound breakdown. "Pebbles, Bamm-Bamm, folder with your case is in the kitchen."

And with that he snaps his fingers and Gates is crashing into the Buick next to Sam and they're alone again.

For several seconds, Bobby just stands rooted to the spot, not knowing which pup to go to first. Dean to his left, Sam several yards away to his right, Gates, whimpering somewhere under a truck behind Sam.

Thankfully, Dean makes the decision for him when he picks himself up and hurries past Bobby to worry over his baby brother.

Sam scoffs at the probing hands and gets up, huffing that they need to get back to the house and find that folder.

Dean stares after him as Sam disappears behind a pile of cars.

"Bobby…he..?"

"'s alright" Bobby tries to sooth him. "Crowley didn't hurt him."

Dean looks grateful for the reassurance for a second, then scowls up at him with a sneer.

"I know that. Geez, Bobby, I'm not actually a kid." He's working real hard on keeping his voice steady. "You don't need to hold my hand and talk me through this shit."

Uh-huh. Right.

Bobby wants to pick him up and carr- tell him to get up and come with him to the house, but Dean is already belly down, halfway under the rusty car wreck, whispering to the whimpering mess that is Bobby's yard dog.

And to Bobby's complete amazement, Gates actually lets himself be pulled out into the harsh morning light and Dean manages to scoop the 50 lb of dog into his arms and starts following his brother.

What the hell?

What happened to hating dogs and dogs reminding him of hell and hyperventilating at the mere sight of one?

How did that suddenly turn into coaxing a terrified puppy out of his hiding place and carrying him around and mushing his face into the furry head?

"Hey there, Gates-y" Bobby has to strain his ears to catch the quiet mumbling. "We'll take care of Sammy together, 'kay? You did a real good job going after that son of a bitch demon."

Uhm…right. Bobby's sure that makes sense on some level.

He forces his feet to follow the kid and together they make it through the front door.

Sam is waiting for the in the kitchen, already engrossed in the manila folder that Crowley somehow planted there.

Dean walks past him, ignoring the assigned hunt for the time being. He sets Gates down on the floor and the little Mastiff whines, making sure to keep his right front paw off the ground.

Bobby watches while Dean wipes a wet towel over Gates' scraped snout and starts dabbing at the injured foot. He's whispering stuff into the dog's ear and Bobby could swear that Gates is taking comfort from the small assurances that he's gonna be fine and that Dean isn't gonna let the big bad demon get near him again.

Alright, this sudden change of mind from _get that motherfucking beast of a dog off me_ to _me and that little doggy are gonna be best friends for ever and ever and ever_ is really messing with Bobby's head. He's just about to say something about it, when Sam pipes up from the kitchen table.

"Uhm…Dean?"

"What is it, Sam?"

Dean barely looks up from where he's wiping the towel over Gates' dusty paws.

"I think I figured out what Crowley's sending us after." Bobby wants to think that that's concern he's seeing in the boy's face, but who's he kidding? "You're not gonna like it."

Bobby and Dean both lean across the table to look at the first of many newspaper cutouts that Sam has strewn all over the place.

_Billings Family Loses Five Children in Five Days_

_Mysterious Sibling-Killing Epidemic Continues - Specialists Still Baffled_

_Secret Chinese Biochemical Weapon Behind Mytery Illness, Mayor Says_

_What's Killing Our Children? Three Deaths in One Night and No Cure in Sight_

Dean's breath catches in his throat. He looks like he wants to set fire to the pile of papers and make them disappear. Or maybe just puke. Probably both in no particular order, possibly simultaneously.

He looks up at Bobby, over to his brother, back to Bobby, begging them to say that this isn't what he thinks it is, to make Crowley come back and tell him it's not their real case, but they can't.

"A…it's a shtriga."


	6. Chapter 6

Hey, back from Christmas Break. I spent it writing about 50 pages of fanfiction and 3 pages of term paper (which I now have...3,5h to finish). I totally got my priorities straight...  
Anyway, Merry Belated Christmas and Happy Belated New Year to you all.

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Bobby doesn't know what it is about shtrigas that makes them such a taboo topic for the Winchesters. Doesn't remember what set it off or if it maybe even got started a long time before he ever met them. He does know that the two or three times the things have come up in conversation, John would immediately ditch his glass of whatever for a whole bottle of whiskey and Dean would shrink before his very eyes, trying his damndest to disappear into the confines of his kitchen chair and both would stubbornly refuse to admit that anything about the older hunter's enquiry had set them off at all. Didn't matter whether Dean was twelve or sixteen or twenty-two.

Now that he's ten again, it's no different. His face goes white and his chin does that wobbly thing that means that he's _not_ about to cry.

"Sammy..?"

"Yeah, Dean. Shtriga. Told you, you weren't gonna like it," his brother shrugs and pulls the papers back towards himself.

"We're not hunting the shtriga fucking alpha!" Dean explodes, the anger almost covering the quiver in his voice.

"Sure we are." Sam mumbles, eyes scanning over a print out of some web page. "You told Crowley we were going after it, didn't you?"

"Yeah, well, we're not!" Dean shouts and slams his palms down on top of Sam's research. "You're not going near that thing, Sam. Ever."

Sam rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed by his brother's ridiculous outburst.

"Alright" Bobby growls. "I've been watching you and your daddy dance your danged routine around this whole shtriga business and I've held my tongue, but if one of you boys doesn't start tellin' me what's going on here, I'm gonna start swattin' people."

Dean shoots him an incredulous glare, mouthing 'none of your damn business' but like last night, Sam takes Dean shutting down as his cue to start talking.

"Ah, I got attacked by one when I was, like five or something. Dean wasn't around and I almost died. I guess he figures it was his fault or something."

"Just shut up, already, Sam!" Dean bursts out. "I've had it with you telling people my dirty, little secrets. The Campbells had no business knowing about what I did in hell and Bobby doesn't need to know about this shit!" He storms past his brother, going for the front door and Bobby barely manages to catch the boy around the waist and pull him back.

"Hey," he gives the kid a rough shake and Gates whines a loud complaint from his place under the sink. "Sit." The crisp orders still have him falling in line like nothing else. "Now let me get this straight: The two of you were holed up in some motel room in the middle of nowhere and a shtriga went after Sam when you were out of the room?"

Booth boys give short nods.

"How long for?"

Dean looks up at him with big, green, pleading eyes.

"Not long. I was gone for, like thirty minutes tops, honest."

"Not what I meant, kid." Bobby shakes his head sadly. "How long were you in that room before something happened?"

"What's it matter how long we were there for?"

"How long?" Bobby growls.

"Three days, I guess."

Bobby scoffs and gets up to busy himself with uncapping a beer.

"Huh, then let me think of the person who left his nine-year old kid to take care of his baby brother in a stinkin' motel room for three days while he knew a kid-eating monster was on the loose…"

"Wasn't Dad's fault," Dean sniffs slightly and Gates hobbles across the room and presses his nose against the kid's thigh.

"Yeah, well, sure as hell wasn't yours, either."

Bobby'd like to think that it's his words and not the dog's wet snout that make Dean pick himself up in his chair.

"Yeah, Sam said the same thing." A quick, bitter smile twitches across his face when Sam makes a face that says that yeah, it wasn't his brother's fault he got hurt, but he isn't exactly sure how it might be a dad's responsibility to look after his kids, either.

"So, are you about done breaking down?" Sam huffs with an annoyed eye roll. "Can we go after this thing now?"

Dean gives his brother a long, sad look, but eventually nods his head yes.

"Long as you don't go anywhere near it."

"Okay. Sure. Whatever."

And with that Sam turns back to his research for good and Dean bends down and heaves his new dog-friend onto his lap.

Bobby feels like they haven't even come close to ending their discussion but he sees little use in pursuing a talk with him as the only active participant, so he grabs himself the papers that Sam has already worked through.

On the surface it's your classic shtriga MO. One child falls sick, the night after that the mystery illness hits the first sibling until there are no children left in the house. It's restricted to a small suburb and all the specialists can figure out is that the kids are simply losing their energy until they dry out and fade away. What makes this case different from every other shtriga attack Bobby ever heard of is the sheer number of children the thing has already sucked dry and the way the kids die within the first twenty-four hours. Bobby's first hunch would be to say that they're dealing with a particularly hungry and powerful shtriga, but Crowley seems to have a pretty good grasp on which cases will lead the boys to one of his precious alphas and which cases won't, so for now Bobby's willing to go along with that theory.

An hour passes in which they read through gruesome article after gruesome article about grieving parents and miracle vaccines. Even a few prints of screenshots from 'facebook groups' (whatever they are. The boys don't seem quite sure, either.) Finally, Dean maneuvers the sleeping Gates onto his chair and busies himself at the fridge. He somehow manages to build several sandwiches out of the nothing that is left inside and places the plate between them on the table.

"So, what do we got?" he asks, juggling his sandwich and the puppy that's climbing back onto his lap.

The boys pretty much got to the same conclusions as Bobby did. They're sure it's a shtriga. They're reasonably sure that it's the alpha, so there's really no telling, whether it can be wasted with consecrated bullets or not. They'll just have to go to Billings and find the thing and hope for the best. Not that they're going for the kill here. They're trying to _catch_ the monsters now. However that's supposed to work. But anyway, killing or catching, first of all they'll have to find it.

"Why do we need to _find_ it?" Sam asks while he picks at his sandwich. "We're kids. It'll find us."

The color drains from Dean's face again. He seems to be having trouble swallowing the lump of sandwich that he just shoved into his mouth.

"We're…You're not gonna be _bait_, Sam" he forces out. "Jesus fucking Christ, have you lost your mind?"

"Why not?" Sam laughs in a way that's clearly meant to imply that his brother is being ridiculous again. "It's perfect. If you think about it, Crowley couldn't have had better timing."

"You're not. Gonna be. Bait." Dean presses out past clenched teeth.

"Fine, you do it then."

"Neither of you's gonna be hung out to be monster chow" Bobby puts his foot down.

Sam still looks unconvinced but leans back in his chair, apparently giving in for the moment. Dean still has a vaguely nauseous tinge and he offers the sandwich that's still in his hands up to the puppy in his lap who gulps it down in two quick bites.

Not having anything left to discuss, Bobby starts loading weapons into his truck. It's a twelve hour drive from the salvage yard to Billings and seeing as the boys weren't exactly the easiest of passengers yesterday, Bobby isn't even sure if they can drive it all in one sitting, so they better get started as soon as possible.

It's past noon by the time all of them are outside and Bobby tells Dean to put Gates back into his barn.

"What?" the boy all but yelps. "No way. He's comin' with us."

"This ain't the kinda hunting trip you take a baby dog on," Bobby sighs, hoping against hope that this will be an easy fight. "Just leave him here, all right?"

"But he wants to come along" Dean pleads, picking the limping puppy up in his arms again. "He helped us fight Crowley. He got hurt trying to save Sam. He's a hunter."

"He's a baby, Dean."

"But…somebody's gotta feed him."

Those are not tears that're welling up in Dean's eyes. No way is he making such a big deal over leaving a yard dog at a yard.

"We'll drop by the neighbor lady and tell her to come by and feed him."

The neighbor lady…whatever her name was. Is it too much to ask Lady What's-Her-Face to take care of the dog for a couple of days, shortly after you showered her in blood and she subsequently turned you down when you asked her out?

"Please, Bobby" not-tears are making the kid's eyes all shiny. Whoever thought that Sam was the one with the puppy dog eyes of death must never have been on the receiving end of his big brother's pitiable pout.

"Dean. Think about it." Bobby tries for a different approach. "Ya keep telling me that you're still all grown-up bad-ass hunter, right?" The kid nods, looking anything but. "Then tell me that you'd have been making as much of a deal out of this three days ago."

He can see the wheels turning inside Dean's head and he knows the exact moment the boy comes to the conclusion that this is his kid brain talking and he's clearly turning leaving the puppy behind into too much of a tragedy than it has any right to be.

"Okay" he whispers hoarsely. "Sorry. I was bein' stupid. C'mon, Gates, you can't come with us."

He presses the puppy that really should be too heavy for him to be carrying around all the time into his face and starts walking for the wooden barn.

Bobby tells himself that he's doing the right thing here. That he can't possible look after a dog on top of the two mini-Winchesters. The small, sad little boy and the whining puppy pull at his heartstrings like nothing else, but Bobby can be stubborn. He's an old stubborn, unmovable son of a bitch. He's…

"Alright, kid, get him into the car."

Wait? Did he just say that? Why did he just say that?

"Thanks, Uncle Bobby!"

There's a loud exclamation and a puppy is put in the back seat and suddenly Bobby has a little boy attached to his mid-section. A little boy that's as far from 'Geez, I'm not actually a kid' as it gets.

Bobby clumsily pats Dean's head, then gets into the front seat.

"Dude, did you just call him _Uncle Bobby_?" he can hear Sam snicker while he's climbing into the car before his brother.

"No. Don't be ridiculous," comes the angry retort.

"You totally did."

"Did not."

"I'm not going to say 'did too', Dean."

"You just did, dumbass."

"Didn't."

"Did t– "

"Boys!" Here we go again with the Winchester pissing matches. This is gonna be one hell of a drive. Bobby isn't sure how they're going to survive this.


	7. Chapter 7

The first two hours of their drive actually go surprisingly well. There's a short lived squabble over which radio station to listen to, but Bobby puts a quick stop to that, threatening to pull over at the next mall and buy a couple of Dr Seuss audio books if they don't quit bitching over his country channel. Other than that the three pups in the backseat seem to be getting along rather well.

Gates, still exhausted from his earlier fight with Crowley is fast asleep on the bench between the two Winchesters, head resting on Dean's thigh. Occasionally, he whines and yelps in his dog dreams and kicks his giant paws into Sam's knee. Which draws an amused giggle from the Dean every single time.

"Why'd we have to bring the stupid dog again?" Sam asks with an annoyed huff after a particularly vicious kick.

"'cause he almost got killed saving your ass, dip shit" Dean throws at his brother, before he immediately returns his attention to the puppy. "He's a hunter and he's gonna help us with the case, aren't you, Gates-y?" He catches Bobby's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Why'd you call him Gates, anyway?"

Before Bobby has a chance to answer, Sam lets out his incredulous my-brother's-such-a-moron laugh.

"You're serious?" he asks with a giggle.

Dean looks at him, not catching on to what Sam's finding so funny.

"Wow" Sam snickers in amazement. "All of Bobby's dogs. They _defend_ stuff. Aspin 'n Perry? Carlucci? Cohen? _Rumsfeld?_ None of these names ring a bell for you?"

Dean screws up his face in thought.

"Rumsfeld was some kinda politician guy, I think."

"Secretary of Defense" Sam corrects in an impatient huff. "You know, like Robert _Gates_ is now?"

"Oh."

Bobby feels bad for not stopping Sam when he still had the chance. He hates the way Dean looks like he's berating himself for being too stupid to figure it out on his own. He doesn't really blame the kid. Not like he ever had much reason to become involved in politics. People with warrants on their asses don't really get the chance to register to vote.

He decides to put an end to their fight before soulless-Sam's remarks become too ego damaging and pulls off the highway the first chance he gets and ushers the kids towards the mall he spotted.

Dean looks distinctly worried and Bobby has to bite back a laugh when he assures him that they're not here to buy the Dr Seuss tapes he threatened them with earlier. He doesn't quite see the need to follow through on that. Yet. But they do need to stack up on snacks for the drive and dog food for the puppy and clothes for the boys.

He doesn't get any arguments while he's filling the cart with sweets (which he should know by now is a disastrous idea, but he just can't tell them no) and pre-made sandwiches and juice and the like. The problems only start up once he leads them into a small no-name store and tells them to pick out socks, underwear, shoes, hoodies and five t-shirts each.

"C'mon, Bobby, that's just stupid, we're not gonna need them ever again once we're big again" (Sam) and "You can't spend that much money on us" (Dean) and "nobody's gonna care what we're wearing anyway" (both of them). The idea that they do not need more than one set of clothes for the entire week is probably one of the first things the two of them have agreed on in several days.

Bobby points out that people are already staring at the two little boys that are running around barefoot this time of year in the middle of South Dakota and Sam reminds him that they're pretty much used to that and not really bothered by it. People tend to stare at hot guys with blood smeared all over their faces. (Sam's words, not Bobby's. Good God, not Bobby's!)

Bobby explains that Sam's shirt is covered in dirt from the yard and Dean's is dusty and smeared with ketchup, chocolate and dog blood. Dean seems to come 'round to the idea that they might need a new shirt each, but is adamant they at least get the new stuff from a Goodwill store.

"I don't give a rat's ass about how much that stuff's gonna cost me." Bobby tries not to explode into their faces. "Better spend it on the two of you than another bottle of Jack, anyway."

When it looks like they're about to argue again, he tells them they can either pick stuff they like or they can wait in the car while Bobby gets them stuff with Hannah Montana prints.

Unsurprisingly both boys fall in line instantly, mortified at the mere thought. Bobby sends them off into the store to pick out their clothes and in less than five minutes they're back, carrying the cheapest shoes and hoodies they could find. Sam has picked six random shirts with different prints and Dean has six plain black t-shirts draped over his arm.

Satisfied with their choice, Bobby ushers them back into the car where they're greeted by an exuberant Gates. They let him out and take a quick piss against a tree in the parking lot, before they continue their drive.

00000

Much like Bobby expected, driving through the night with his two mini-Winchesters tagging along is damn near impossible. About four hours out of Billings Dean is breathing on his window and scribbling rude messages to the people driving past them on the built-up fog and Sam is throwing stray M&M's in his brother's general direction. Gates is busy dodging the projectiles, until Dean snaps the bag from Sam's hands, settles the dog against his side and starts feeding him the candy that has landed on the floor. And there goes the career of another promising yard dog, coddled into submission by one of the Winchester brothers.

When the radio starts playing 'You Give Love a Bad Name' and Dean actually starts singing along, with Sam soon providing the backing vocals, Bobby decides that it's way past time they pulled into a hotel for the night.

He picks a place that's slightly more upscale than what the boys usually go for and a lot less whacky than Dean likes to find. Thing's got an inside pool, the receptionist is keen to point out once he sees the kids in his customer's car. It only costs five dollars and use can be charged to the room. Bobby makes a mental note to not mention the existence of the damn pool to the boys.

They settle into their room and Bobby quickly snatches up the remote control from the nightstand before the boys can even think of starting a fight over what to watch.

Doesn't really matter one way or another, because Sam couldn't care less about the pros and cons of reality TV and would much rather be doing some more research anyway and Dean is too exhausted from last night's nightmare induced research session to do much more than grab a quick shower and fall asleep, looking only vaguely annoyed by Bobby's choice of Home Sweet Hollywood. Bobby himself isn't faring much better and soon enough he's drifting off during the first commercial break. He's dimly aware of Gates climbing onto Dean's pillow and how he wasn't going to encourage this kinda behavior in his new fearsome guard dog, but he honestly doesn't have the heart or the energy to do anything about it at this point.

Bobby doesn't know how long he's out for. Doesn't feel much longer than last night's glorious three hours of shut-eye. He does know that the constant poking at his left shoulder is not welcome, though. Crap, it's probably been _less_ than three hours.

"Bo-bby" comes the bored singsong voice. "Bo-o-o-bby. BOBBY!"

"'lright, 'lraight, I'm up."

Bobby forces his eyes open and once again finds himself nose to nose with Sam, who's still poking his shoulder with one finger.

"Whatisitsam?" he slurs, desperately checking the radio clock on the nightstand. Somebody upstairs must really hate him, he figures.

"Dean" Sam provides. "He's having a nightmare again. Thought you might wanna deal with it." And with that he turns around and settles back at his desk…staring at his sleeping brother. Again.

Groaning, Bobby rolls out of his bed and more or less falls the two steps over to the tossing boy.

He isn't exactly sure if there's a right way to bring somebody around from torture inspired nightmares. Bobby's always been in favor of doing his research and acting according to it, but there's no real time for reading self help books, right now, so he goes with his gut and grabs the kid's shoulder and starts shaking.

"No…I don't wanna…please, don't make me…"

Okay, so shaking's not the way to go.

"Dean, wake up!"

The tossing gets more violent, Bobby tries to grab the flailing limbs, catches a good punch in the mouth and suddenly, with a breathless "Sammy!" Dean is sitting upright, next to him. Eyes wide and darting about the room. Gates who's been woken by the violent movements around his bed nudges Dean's elbow and it's like all the progress they made yesterday has been forgotten. Dean scurries back against the headboard, yelling and screaming about hellhounds, searching for something under his pillow.

Bobby somehow manages to shove the Mastiff off the bed and catch Dean's flailing arms and kicking legs and drag him out the door.

Once outside, he puts the little boy on his own feet again. Looks like the cold night air is doing its job of bringing him back to his senses, because within a minute he's mumbling about "stupid" and "sorry" and Bobby has to assure him that he's not mad about his split lip.

"So, these nightmare things happen a lot?" Bobby finally asks, sitting down on the steps in front of their room.

Dean shakes his head.

"Not usually. Just, you know, it's this freakin' curse." He looks unsure, wringing his hands, like he's admitting to some terrible secret. "I uhm…I think maybe we're not exactly ourselves."

"Uh huh." Bobby gently ruffles the kid's hair. "Figured as much."

Dean's eyes shoot up in shock, searching his face for something.

"How did you..?"

"Not exactly rocket science, kid" Bobby scoffs good naturedly. If the emotional fragility and the singing in the car and the crazy sugar intolerance hadn't clued him in, then at least the fact that he has his hand curled into Dean's blonde locks and the boy is actually leaning into his touch sure would have done the trick.

"It scares me, y'know" Dean mumbles, picking at a loose screw in the step below him. "It's like…I wanna be myself and then my brain freezes up on me and I feel like a stupid little kid again."

Bobby "uh huh"s again, wishing like crazy that if the boys had to get themselves de-aged, they could at least have had the decency to do it while Sam still had his soul attached, so they could deal with this emo crap together and leave the poor mechanic out of it.

"Think you can go back to sleep?" he asks hopefully.

Dean bites his lower lip, not quite meeting Bobby's eyes.

"I'm gonna be in troub-" he cuts himself off, obviously uncomfortable with sounding so childish after admitting to feeling like a little kid. "I'm gonna be in deep shit if I swipe some whiskey from the mini bar, right?"

"Damn straight," Bobby grumbles, raising a sardonic eyebrow. Dean's face falls into an annoyed pout.

Rolling his eyes, Bobby nudges Dean's elbow and the boy picks himself up muttering, "should'a called Ellen instead. She's got a whole bar. She'd never notice…"


	8. Chapter 8

Dean doesn't fall back asleep until the wee hours of the morning. Bobby in his half-asleep state gets regular updates when the boy's brother announces "It's 3:00 in the morning, Dean. You're still up." Which, Bobby presumes is answered with a one finger salute. Sam's comments end with "It's 4:15.", so Bobby figures that sometime after that Dean actually managed to drift off.

When the old hunter peels himself out of his sheets to make his way into the bathroom, he takes extra care to remind Sam to not wake his brother. It's still more or less a gamble, though. Chances are Sam will kick Gates and Gates will yelp and then Sam will be confused as to why he shouldn't go around kicking puppies or why the noise he made would wake anybody.

A knock on the door has Bobby sticking his head back into the main room.

"No need for room service!" Sam yells at the top of his lungs and predictably, Dean groans, rolls over onto his back and starts rubbing at his tired eyes. Well, at least no puppies were hurt in the process of waking Dean.

The knocking continues, gets louder and Bobby spills some water onto his face, crosses the room and yaks the door open with a murderous glare. How hard to understand is 'no need for room service'? How could any maid possibly misunderstand that? How could…oh.

"What the fuck, Crowley!" Sam lets out an annoyed shout, once he sees who's actually at the door. "We're on our way. No need to check up on us every other second."

The demon gives an amused chuckle.

"And yet, you're not. On your way, that is." He points one manicured finger at Dean who's still sitting on his bed, all tangled up in his sheets. "Get moving, Wendy. You've had all night to float around Neverland."

Bobby is about to get into the hell spawn's face about how the kid's dreams are about as far from floating around Neverland as Bobby is from a professional ballet dancer, but remembers that he doesn't want to justify himself to the demon, so he keeps his mouth shut and glowers some more.

Crowley fishes something out of the confines of his suit jacket, scowls down at the salt line, barring him from their room and settles for tossing a small bundle at Dean's bed. Then, with an infuriatingly smug wave and a quiet grin, he's gone.

For appearance sake, Bobby sends a couple select curses at the closing door, before he turns to Dean. The boy is holding a small and furry _something_.

"What'cha got there?"

Dean crinkles his nose in disgust when he looks up at him.

"A teddy bear." He manages to make 'teddy bear' sound about as appealing as 'poison ivy covered in horse shit'.

"What's Crowley think we're going to use a toy for?" Sam asks, getting up from his place at the desk.

"Nothing," Dean gripes. "He's makin' fun of us."

"For bein' kids?"

Sam looks extremely confused by the concept of 'A Joke', so Bobby tells Dean to go back to sleep, before the conversation can deteriorate into another shouting match.

"Nah," Dean sighs, working on untangling his sheets and rubbing at his sleep heavy eyes. "'m up now, anyway. Might as well get a move on."

And before Bobby can say another word, he's up and grabbing one of his new shirts and they're back on the road.

00000

They're in such a hurry to get out of their room that they don't even think of stopping for breakfast before they're on a deserted back road with no diners in sight.

In the rearview mirror Bobby can make out Dean pushing his clenched up fist into his belly and Sam eating the last couple M&M's. He wonders what happened to the sandwiches he bought yesterday, but then remembers who he's traveling with and figures that three whelps are more than capable of eating ten sandwiches in the course of a couple hours. And now they're out of food. Great. Bobby contemplates turning the truck around and pulling into the Burger King joint they passed seventy minutes ago. For the boys sake. For the sake of keeping the peace in the backseat. Nothing to do with his own grumbling stomach. He mentions the idea to the boys and both tell him to just keep going. They can grab some chow at a diner in Billings in two hours they tell him and when Bobby sees Dean passed out against his window a couple minutes later, he actually begins to believe that this installment of Road Tripping with the Winchesters will go by without bloodshed.

00000

Sam wakes his brother, shoving his shoulder until he pries his eyes open, once they've reached Billings. Dean looks pale and vaguely sick and Sam's stomach is grumbling for both of them. And that's not even mentioning Bobby's own hunger headache. He pulls into the parking lot of the first diner he can find, feeling pretty stupid and out of his element giving they boys a speech on proper behavior inside a public restaurant and such shit, but after the disaster in Sioux Falls, he feels like he has little choice. There will be absolutely no screaming or throwing of food or painting with ketchup. In fact, there will be no ketchup at all and they will order food that has little to no potential of being turned into projectile weapons. And no sugary soda. He gets two annoyed eye rolls from the backseat but surprisingly enough no real protest from Dean when they have to leave Gates behind. The little dog seems more than happy to stay in the backseat and chew on Crowley's teddy bear.

A twenty-something waitress shows them to their table, all flashy white teeth and wavy curls and customer-friendly cleavage.

"We totally need to get back to this place, when I'm big again," Dean comments, leaning out of their booth to watch her disappear into the kitchen.

"Uh huh," Sam agrees with a predatory grin that would have made Bobby feel uncomfortable even if it hadn't been plastered onto the face of a ten-year old.

"Dude, I saw her first!"

"Whatever, if she can't decide we can still share her or something."

Dean's face turns into a twisted mask of horror and disgust that would have Bobby rolling on the floor laughing, if he wasn't equally horrified by Sam's idea.

"Jesus. You're my _brother_. I'm not having a threewa- "

"Boys!" Bobby wants to rip out his ears. And maybe cast a spell to make him forget the pictures that just invaded his mind. "I don't wanna hear another word out of either of you, unless it's to order your food, got it?"

Dean wiggles a suggestive eyebrow at him and Sam rolls his eyes but thankfully they stay silent.

Bobby is grateful beyond believe, when a different waitress strolls over to take their orders. A middle aged, chubby, non-cleavage showing waitress.

"Hi there," she beams a maternal smile down at the boys who look distinctly disappointed. "Now, shouldn't you boys be at school?"

Bobby's thrown for a second. He wasn't exactly counting on having to con anybody this soon, still low on sleep and caffeine and calories in general.

"Our Uncle Bobby's keeping us out of school, 'cause of the bug," Dean comes up with his own cover story within a second of realizing that Bobby isn't about to provide one. Would have been a pretty good cover too, if he hadn't said it the same moment, Sam announced "Grandpa home schools us." Both boys pointing across the table at him.

The waitress – Martha, her nametag says – frowns and turns her attention to Bobby, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Bobby doesn't even want to think about all the kidnapping scenarios she's running through her head right now. At least he's over his earlier surprise and has the presence of mind to dig around in his pockets for his wallet.

"Right, I'm with the FBI, ma'am," he tells her. Making sure to wave the right fake ID in her face, he turns his voice into a low, compassionate grumble. "These boys have been through a lot. Seen a lot. Not really the time to be going to school. They've got enough to worry about, witnessing their momma get killed by their daddy."

Well, John Winchester himself once told him about shocking people with lies so outrageous that nobody in their right mind would dare question you and clearly, it worked. All the suspicion drains from the woman's face and actual tears well up in her eyes while she reaches up one baldy manicured hand to cover her mouth.

"Oh my," she whispers, shaking her head in disbelieve.

The boys are doing their best to complete the act, Sam's blank face actually making him look like a brave little boy, working on his stiff upper lip and Dean turns on the puppy dog eyes again and somehow manages to look close to crying.

"I didn't mean to lie to you, ma'am," he whispers at his menu and Bobby works real hard on not letting his amusement at the miniature con-man show on his face. "Just…I didn't wanna…I couldn't…"

"Oh, sweetie, it's alright," Martha is quick to assure him, fighting back real tears herself. "Lemme just take your orders and I'll make sure the chef does an extra good job on it, okay?"

Bobby barely manages to stifle a groan when Dean orders a huge basket of buffalo wings with fries and ketchup and some coke. There's no way he can make him go back on his order now, without seeming like a completely heartless jackass. Sam's pastrami sandwich and Sprite seem only slightly more on the safe side of the sugar front. At least there aren't any chocolate shakes involved.

Bobby decides to order a beef salad and some coffee for himself when Dean pipes up with an enthusiastic "make that two."

Bobby feels like he could throttle the boy. Sure, cut back on the sugary shakes and make up for it with caffeine.

Martha smiles indulgently at the angelic little boy. Oh, if only she knew…

"Oh, honey," she coos, shooting Bobby a look that says she knows what he's going through. Bobby doubts that. "I know you wanna be just like Agent Nelson here, but you're too little for any nasty coffee. I'll get ya your Coke, alright?"

And before Dean can protest that he can damn well decide for himself what he wants to drink, she's off, storming through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

Bobby spends the few minutes they're waiting for their food, glaring daggers at the boys, muttering vague threats as to what he will do to them if they even think about throwing buffalo wings or letting the sodas get to their heads.

"Agent Nelson, you're bein' mean," Sam whines just loud enough to carry all the way across the diner where Martha is serving an elderly couple. Bobby shrinks back at her venomous glare.

She hurries into the kitchen and comes back out, putting a pot of black coffee in front of Bobby and two pint sized soda cups in front of the boys. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"He giving you trouble, honey?" she asks, jerking her head in Bobby's direction.

"I…he's just being…I mean, I was just _askin'_, I didn't – ", oh great, they're teaming up on him. Has Dean always been able to do that crying on command thing?

"What were you asking for, honey?" she asks, shooting a glare at Bobby that clearly says that whatever these little angles ask for, they should get.

Dean sniffs loudly and Bobby aims a well placed kick at the kid's shin. The tears disappear instantly, only to be replaced by a giant, teeth showing smile. "My brother 'n me wanna have some pie."

Bobby's torn between being impressed with the boys' skill and tearing them a new one for manipulating the hell out of the poor woman. Better wait 'till after he's finished at least two cups of coffee before he decides which way to go.


	9. Chapter 9

Okay, so I have officially given up and changed the genre to Angst/_Humor_ (which is about the most ridiculous cross over ever, but so what). I just can't keep the boys serious enough for more than half a chapter to justify any other catergory. I'm thinking writing this story is actually therapy for years of babysitting my cousins. ^^

00000

"Wow, that lady was crazy!" Dean is still fuming when they're making their way across the parking lot, back to the truck. Bobby barks a heartfelt, not at all compassionate laugh at the boy's indignant pout.

"Fucking crazy bitch…" he keeps muttering, which Bobby figures is a bit harsh, when ten minutes ago he was working on being a perfect little angel for the poor waitress. Even managed to get her to give them their entire lunch on the house ("He just _stabbed_ her. Again and again and again and there was blood everywhere and we were hidin' in the closet, but we were so _scared!_"). It's no real wonder Martha ruffled his hair and pulled him into a crushing hug against her giant, flabby breasts and told Sam to look out for his poor little brother.

"We're not eating at this place again," Dean decides and Bobby isn't even sure which of Martha's offences is pissing him off the most right now.

"Hey, if you're not going back in there, does that mean that I get to have the hot waitress?" Sam asks with a sort of real-looking shit eating grin.

"Dude," Dean huffs, throwing his hands up in defeat. "You can have the hot waitress, you can have the fat, crazy waitress, you can have it off with both of them at the same time, for all I care."

"Sweet. I'll get right on that."

He really hopes that Sam is planning on having his little ménage a trio after his stint as a ten year-old is over, because Bobby sure as hell isn't planning on having _that_ talk with him.

"She thought I was older 'n you," Sam observes once the boys have fought their way passed a tail wagging Gates into the backseat.

"Yeah, but that's just 'cause she's crazy."

"Nah, she thought I was older, 'cause I'm bigger than you."

Bobby turns the radio up as loud as it will go, hoping to drown out the conversation that is quickly turning into shouting from the backseat. If he's really lucky, it'll even give the boys a clue that he'd appreciate them keeping it down.

"You're so not bigger than me!"

"You can't argue about a fact, Dean!"

"Can too!"

Sure. Give them a clue. He's a moron for even hoping.

00000

Bobby decides that they can't stay at a hotel this time. For all they know solving this case will take more than a couple days and he really doesn't want to end up in a situation where he has to explain to some hotel manager why he checked in with two little boys in tow and is leaving with two grown ass man that are not covered by the children's discount.

He finds them a street full of empty houses with _For Sale_ signs on the front porches. Thank God for the recession.

Wait. That didn't come out right. It's not like Bobby is taking particular pleasure in other people's misery.

Oh, who's he kidding? He's making a living off of other people's car accidents and bad poker skills. Taking advantage of foreclosures fits right in there.

For the first time since they found out about it, Bobby is actually thankful for Sam's state of soulless-ness. No nagging voice of reason, playing moral compass to Bobby and Dean's opportunist mentality.

"So," Dean asks, ripping the plastic cover off the couch and flopping down with a wriggling Gates in his lap. "Think the shtriga is posing as a doctor again?"

"Don't really think so," Sam shrugs. "I mean…the kids die after a day or so, anyway. Seems like too much trouble to set up a doctor act for. Not like they spend that much time at the hospital."

"I think it's posing as a doctor again." Dean sounds every bit like the snot-nosed kid brother Martha thought him to be.

Sam rolls his eyes and they both turn their attention to Bobby, like all of a sudden they care what he has to offer.

"Can't hurt to check out the hospital," he finally decides, rummaging through his duffel to change into a more or less crinkle free suit. A waitress might not blink at an FBI agent, dressed in jeans, oversized t-shirt and trucker hat, but he's pretty sure that nurses and doctors expect better from the Center for Disease Control. "Now, I don't want you shooting each other, by the time I get back."

They both protest like crazy. They need to come with him, they can help, he needs back up, yadayadayada. All very valid points, but nobody's gonna believe his government official act, if he brings his ten year-old nephews or grandsons or whatever along and low and behold, they actually both agree to stay put (even though Sam suggests that they could pose as his junior partners, or interns or something, because apparently "people are gonna believe the most outrageous bullshit as long as you say it with a straight face").

"Keep the dog busy," Bobby reminds them before he heads out the door.

The visit to the hospital is so useless, it's beyond waste of time. He meets a couple doctors, all of them glad that the Center for Disease Control is finally taking action and he's perfectly fine with offering them professional sounding platitudes about very promising lab tests back in DC and concerned, deeply caring superiors and what not. If he really thinks about it, the fact that over thirty children have died in not even two weeks and no actual government agency has responded yet, even though the hospital practically begged them to, just goes to prove his recent mantra: humans are screwed up.

Promising the medical staff that he will take action against this crazy killer bug and actually finding the shtriga and wasti- _catching_ it are two different kinds of gigs, though. It's not like there's a shtriga test, where you utter a Latin phrase or spike their drink and they flinch violently or start coughing up steam or anything. He just has no fucking clue if the shtriga alpha is at this hospital or not, much less which one of the dozens of doctors and nurses it would be.

Thinking that Sam had a point when he said that checking out the hospital wouldn't do much good, Bobby heads out of the pediatric ward, just as he hears one of the constant beeping noises flat line, followed by the hysteric wails of a distraught mother.

He comes back to the house to find the boys on opposite sides of the room, tossing Crowley's teddy bear between them with Gates chasing after the thing, yelping like crazy. It looks downright…domestic.

"So, hospital turned up nada," he grunts and Sam shoots him a quick 'told you so' expression, while engaging the puppy in a violent tug o' war.

"Yeah, we figured," Dean shrugs, wrestling the teddy from his brother's grip. "You're gonna snap his neck if you keep doing that."

"Excuse me?" Bobby snaps, looking up from where he's fishing their manila folder out of his duffel. "You figured the hospital'd turn up nothing? _You_ were the one who said we should check it out in the first place, boy."

Dean looks up at him with a sheepish grin. "Yeah, but that was just 'cause Sam said you _shouldn't _check it out."

Jesusfuckingtapdancingchrist, Bobby's gonna do something they'll all regret if those kids don't pull their heads out of their asses and soon.

"Let's just work on finding the next victim," he growls, slamming the papers down on the dusty coffee table in front of the boys. "Dean, you mark the houses that have already been attacked. Sam, try'n figure out which ones still have kids in them."

He can't even begin to describe how incredibly good the quick "yes, sir" s feel. Still makes him feel uncomfortable. But also incredibly good.

The problem with this being the alpha and not some run of the mill shtriga (which are pretty damn powerful all on their own) is that the goddamn thing goes for several victims a night, so in the end the boys work out a list of four houses that are likely to be attacked tonight. Which pretty much means that they're screwed. Even if the boys weren't munchkins, they'd still be one man short, would still be risking leaving one of the kids to die. This situation is even worse. They can stake out one house, hoping the shtriga will turn up there first and _then_ hope that inspiration will hit and they come up with a plan to catch it. Sure. What could possibly go wrong?

00000

At nightfall, Bobby parks his truck in front of a nice two story house Sam picked at random, using eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Bobby would have rejected the boy's system on principle, but it's not like his or Dean's choice would have been any less arbitrary.

Actually working a job, even if it's only a stake out, has the boys being surprisingly professional. Bobby figures he's lucky, 'cause it's not like he could have left them alone, back at the house in the middle of the night with a kid eating super monster on the lose.

Shortly after midnight, the lights in the house get turned on again, there's screaming that carries all the way across the street into the truck and ten minutes later, an ambulance comes screeching around the corner.

They missed it. The shtriga attacked the little girl right before their eyes and they goddamn missed it. No hooded figure, no open window, not one fucking thing out of place except for a small kid on the verge of dying.

"Bobby," Dean breathes, his eyes following the movement of the paramedics. "Get us outta here."

"Dude, that house is gonna be empty in two minutes. We can search it then," Sam rolls his eyes. "Have some goddamn patience."

"Bobby, drive!"

There is a commotion in the backseat that sounds very much like Dean is slamming his brother into the upholstery, hissing and yelling at the same time. Bobby can make out "fucking shtriga" and "Sammy" and "safe" and "not again" and pretty much figures the rest. He hits the gas pedal and gets the hell out of Dodge as fast as he can.


End file.
